


Four Times Greg Was Going To Propose And One Time Mycroft Beat Him To It

by Moransroar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mycroft Being a Bastard, POV Greg, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly as the title predicts.<br/>Four times Greg was going to propose, and one time Mycroft beat him to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Greg Was Going To Propose And One Time Mycroft Beat Him To It

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by my good friends Alex (alexorcisms) and Obe, thanks!

This was really just the most perfect, most beautiful setting they could possibly find themselves in. Fairy lights lines the full hedges, guiding them along their path towards the centre where a fountain was gorgeously lit from all angles in a small clearing-like open space. They could look up to the sky and see the stars between the clouds, there. Greg did while anxiously fondling the velvet box stuffed deep and inconspicuously (Mycroft was nothing short of a genius when it came to deductions, of course) in the pocket of his suit jacket. His collar was too tight and made his throat feel drier than it had to be. Mycroft and Greg had been together for almost two years now. That was quite something, wasn’t it? In Greg’s defence, the time had flown by like water slipping through the gaps between the fingers of an open hand. It felt easy, it felt free. Natural. Yeah, that was the best word to describe it with. After their first few (and rather heated) encounters, their first few dates, their bond had grown and they had learned to love each other beyond their physical attraction. Not that there had never been reasons to like each other beyond anything trivial. There had been plenty. But they had learned, after the first couple of months, that a lack of passion didn’t mean a lack of love. Greg still cherished Mycroft as much as he had done on their first date, or their first night together, and he was thoroughly convinced that the feeling was mutual. Or else they wouldn’t be standing here, right?

Greg took a deep breath of fresh air, smelling the freshly cut hedges, and the flowers that hid beneath the leaves and weaved their way along the branches. He could hear the clattering of the water ahead. Their arms were linked, they walked easily like that. Like everything else, they had learned to do that. At first, it had been a little clumsy. Figuring out who should offer whom an arm, which person should be on what side, who should have their arm atop the other’s. There’s more to walking hand in hand than meets the eye, too. Greg smiled and looked up when he felt Mycroft’s eyes on him. In the dim light, they appeared darker than usual. Just like whenever they sat by their fireplace in their shared home. Greg found them as beautiful as ever.

It was like Mycroft could feel that Greg was nervous about something, because the man twisted his hand so he could gently squeeze Greg’s bicep while still keeping their arms linked. It made the DI’s smile a little calmer. Only a little. They resumed their walk towards the fountain.

Greg wanted their pace to slow down so he had time to rehearse his speech. He knew exactly what to say, he’d been practicing and editing the little ode to Mycroft for a while. Of course it all had to be perfect. When you had a man like Mycroft by your side, even the most flawless wasn’t impeccable enough, even the most perfect wasn’t ideal enough. Even after all this time Greg still felt the need to impress Mycroft simply so he knew he wasn’t selling short, so he knew he was living up to Mycroft’s possible expectations or desires. He had never had any complaints, nor had he ever voiced his discontent to Greg, and yet… He could never be too sure.

The Detective Inspector loosened their linked arms and slid his hand down as Mycroft’s lowered, taking the other’s hand in his own so he could lead him towards the fountain. There was one other couple lingering by the beautiful sculpture, having bathed their feet in the lukewarm water by the looks of it. They were just departing. It was now or never.

They had walked in silence, just enjoying each other’s company, and it almost felt like a shame to be breaking that fragile peace in the air. But he wanted to do this. He had to do this. He’d postponed it so many times before simply because he’d always found that his speech just wasn’t immaculate enough. And even now he was insecure and self-conscious about it. Or maybe he was unsure about his ability to recite precisely what he’d jotted down. Should he even use his flashcards? God, no, that would come across all wrong. It would seem to Mycroft like he hadn’t even taken the time or cared to put the effort into learning his lines. Greg wasn’t a star on stage, he wasn’t an actor in those famous pictures, but he had a very precise memory. And now, he hoped that his memory wouldn’t fail him when he most needed it.

Greg turned to Mycroft and drew in a breath.

“It’s getting quite cold, don’t you think?” Mycroft hummed, looking up at the leaves of a big oak. Greg held his breath. “Perhaps we should head home and warm up.”

Greg breathed out.

And with that single breath, all his courage sank into the toes of his shoes, not to be found again.

He bit his lip, and then hummed in agreement. He didn’t think it was getting cold. Hell, those people had been sitting with their feet in the water. But then maybe that was still warm from the late afternoon sun. Or…something. Greg looked fine, on the outside, but on the inside he felt horrible. Deflated, he leaned in and kissed Mycroft’s cheek, pulling him close for a moment so they could enjoy each other’s warmth and he could hide the disappointment on his face long enough for him to be able to recompose. His smile was flashing when he pulled back and curled an arm around Mycroft’s waist to lead the way back.

Another time, he thought.

I’ll do it another time.

 

*****

 

“Another time” came about two weeks later, and Greg was surprised that he had managed to keep the amount of time between attempts so short. It was supposed to be a fairly simple date to keep up the time they spent together outside of the house, but Greg had spiced it up a little bit. What had been supposed to be a simple day at the beach, ended in a candlelit picnic in the sand by the setting sun, with wine and good food, soft music sounding from the small radio Greg had dug out of their basement. Another opportunity, almost equally romantic as the first.

The setting sun bathed Mycroft in an orange-ish hue, his hair looking positively ginger. It made Greg smile and want to run his hands through the strands until they glittered in the play of the light. Tonight was the night. Even though Greg had told himself that often enough before, he knew it for sure this time. Didn’t he? His hand reached for Mycroft’s and held it. Mycroft smiled that little smile he reserved for Greg and scooted closer to tuck himself in the crook of the DI’s arm and cuddle up for warmth. A soft blanket covered their legs, and Greg straightened it a little nervously, fidgeting with the loose ends of thread. Mycroft pressed a kiss to his cheek. He smiled.

He sighed.

“Are you quite alright?” Mycroft’s voice was soft above the gentle sound of calm waves in the near distance. They would have to leave soon. They both had a job to get back to, a life back in London. And although Greg would rather stay exactly where they were right then for the rest of his life, he knew he had responsibilities to get back to.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “Happy.”

They shared each a gentle smile of their own.

Their closeness gave Greg the opportunity to do as he’d wanted to do since the sun had been low enough to cast its peach glow over the sand. He ran a hand through Mycroft’s hair, watching as the man closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Greg liked how Mycroft relaxed whenever they were together like this, going on little trips across the country or staying closer to home. Or home, period. Greg knew all too well that it was rare for someone with such a “minor” position in the government to be able to completely relax and let go. Mycroft had once told him how much he appreciated that he could unwind whenever he was around Greg. Greg had smiled and kissed him, and promised that it would always be like that. They were each other’s safe havens.

Greg kissed Mycroft, and Mycroft kissed back, and for a moment there was no ring in Greg’s pocket and no nerves in his stomach, clutching like a tight fist, a knot in his insides. Greg was so tempted to resume a path of kisses across Mycroft’s jaw and down his neck, wading himself in familiar territory and that delicious smell of spice. Mycroft never did let Greg buy him cologne, nor did he show the bottle to his lover. All Greg knew is that it was expensive and that it was so distinctly Mycroft that he didn’t mind the man’s odd ways with regards to secrecy about his perfume, of all things.

Maybe that was a part of the mystery behind the scent.

Greg would be able to detect and recognise it anywhere, which was really an advantage of such a unique scent.

The Detective Inspector’s thoughts were trailing as his lips were, down Mycroft’s neck even though he’d told himself that he wouldn’t go there. He would finish what he had wanted to initiate for so long. At long last. But Mycroft’s skin was warm and soft against his lips and tasted faintly of salt, undoubtedly from the soft breeze that had caressed it over the day.

Mycroft let out a soft sound, and Greg was a goner. He licked, nipped, nuzzled, until the skin was tinted with a beautiful blush and Mycroft felt like putty in Greg’s arms. He held him close, their bodies together, and lowered them into the sand to continue down the front of Mycroft’s neck and over the chest he exposed with every button he popped with swift fingers. Mycroft’s chest was rising and falling with quickened breaths, and Greg knew exactly where to put his mouth and where to graze his teeth to aggravate that. A hand slid into his hair and he smiled against the soft flesh of Mycroft’s tummy. The way the man’s hips arched up told Greg that tonight would be going a little bit differently than he had initially expected, but when a man so gorgeous and delicious was writhing beneath him so enticingly, who could blame him?

Their night ended with a quick soak in the lukewarm, salty water to wash off their exertion, standing in each other’s arms and watching the moon up in the sky accompanied by little dots of stars. Out here, without the pollution of the city and the lights of the many buildings there, the sky was so visible it was almost overwhelming. Mycroft promised he would take Greg to France again soon to see the stars even more beautifully than now. Greg made him seal that promise with a kiss.

Gathering their belongings and returning to their car was difficult. Greg felt the box in the pocket of his jacket and bit his lip hard as he carried a few things to the vehicle. Was he ever going to gather the courage and find the right moment to do it, or would he wait until they were both unable to move from their rocking chairs and Mycroft would almost be obligated to accept? Soon, he told himself again, but he was slowly starting to come to terms that soon might not be all that soon.

Greg cursed himself for wanting everything to be so damn perfect.

 

*****

 

And sure enough, as promised, a few weeks later Mycroft and Greg had miraculously enough found a way to clear their schedules, and they both ended up in a small village in the middle of nowhere. In France. And the night sky really was beautiful, also as promised. They walked along the stream that lined one rim of the campsite, drank wine directly from the wooden barrels it was stored in, and bathed in gorgeous lakes. They even went canoeing at one point, after a lot of nagging from Greg’s side.

It was a very normal, very domestic little vacation. And they both seemed to love it equally. Greg tried his hand at archery while Mycroft brushed up his French with some of the locals, bragging a little about his lover while they watched him fire off the arrows in the general direction of the large wooden board with bullseyes drawn in the centre. As his aim was rather flawless after some years of practice with a gun, Greg quickly learned the tactics of archery, too. Though of course the latter needed a bit more strength.

In the evenings they ate with locals whenever Mycroft had managed to befriend some, or they ate on the campsite with the other tourists from all over the world. Greg admired Mycroft’s ability to converse with so many people, and so casually at that. He sure knew what to say or do in a social situation, and yet Mycroft – despite people assuming him to be a little antisocial maybe – was the person you always saw in friendly conversation, laughing with people they were likely to never meet again and who didn’t know about his position or background. Maybe that was what made it easier for him to loosen up.

Although Greg enjoyed it all, he cherished the moments they were alone. Together. Sitting in front of their tent, cooking their meal or drinking a glass of wine, or perhaps preparing to spend the night by the stream. The sound of crickets always accompanied them, so it was never really quiet. They shared smiles, patient and loving touches, and at night they fell asleep on the large air mattress, cuddled up in each other’s arms, for at night it grew cold.

Greg’s little box was safely tucked somewhere inside one of his own bags, away from all Mycroft’s belongings and clothes. It was like he brought it everywhere these days, just in case as it were. You can never predict when the right moment is going to present itself, right? With that in the back of his mind, he kept it close at all times. Or at least, when he had a backpack to hide it in, or shorts with the correct kind of pockets to hide a big bulk like that. Greg was excited because Mycroft’s love for France was so big that it had to attribute to the importance and memory of his proposal. Greg wanted it to be memorable, and perhaps this was one of many ways, but right now his mind was fixed on France.

Many opportunities presented themselves. Sitting by the stream and watching the stars while skipping stones over the water and trying to beat the sloshing of the water. Taking a long walk through the grapevines after another one of their tastings. In an old ruin of a castle, abandoned and overgrown with weeds and twines. The latter would have been particularly spectacular, because he had hardly seen Mycroft so engrossed with the romantic atmosphere that surrounded the castle. Greg hadn’t known if it had been a hint. Probably not. Though it sounded a little bit like it every now and again, but Greg had laughed it off. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

Another opportunity came when they were nearing the end of their week and a half of sun and relaxation. With their car, they’d decided to drive into the mountains, follow a map (and not the GPS, no, they were doing this the old fashioned way), and see where they would end up. Well, they ended up high up in the mountains in a small village that could only be entered by crossing a bridge too narrow for their car to fit through. So they parked and treaded the long, stone bridge, and marvelled at the view. The village was built against one wide of a mountain, small with narrow and steep streets, with few villagers and ever fewer opportunities to make contact. It seemed deserted. This was obviously not really meant for tourists, though the area was gorgeous. The bridge crossed a very deep, green valley that stretched out for a while until it cut a corner. Luckily, neither feared these heights, so they both spent endlessly peering over the edge into the seemingly bottomless valley below.

Flowers welcomed them when they entered the small village and immediately had to climb a steep set of slim stairs. They crawled where it seemed impossible, in every possible vibrant colour. Red, orange, peach, yellow. They helped the two men on their way up, where they reached another narrow road further into the mountains, and a tiny chapel, built in between two steeping houses. Much to their surprise, the door was open. The light was dimmed inside, colours dancing across the stone floor where the slowly lowering sun fell in through the colourful, leaded windows. It smelled of old wood and dust. Mycroft’s attention was immediately drawn by a beautiful sculpture of mother Mary at the end of the chapel, presenting a small alter. Greg grinned at the irony when he felt the box with the ring in the pocket of his shorts.

Mycroft’s hands caressed almost every inch of the chapel, reverently touching the coloured glass, clearly in awe. Greg’s heart swelled to twice its normal size, surely. It almost seemed like it would be a waste to ruin this moment with a seemingly insignificant interruption. Greg sighed inaudibly. Why was watching Mycroft so captivating?

He decided to save the ring for later.

 

*****

 

It’s not that Greg had given up. It’s just that he hadn’t tried for a few weeks. Or months. He’d thought about it though, and quite often as that, but every time an opportunity seemed to present himself either he or Mycroft were too busy doing something else. Or maybe it turned out that Greg didn’t have the courage he needed after all. It was a hard task, he knew, but did it have to be so impossible?

After France things had turned back to normal as they always did. Mycroft worked, Greg worked, they saw each other at breakfast and went to bed together at night. If they were lucky, that is. Sometimes when Greg went to bed alone he took out the ring and caressed it, whispering to it that he hadn’t forgotten about it. Maybe if the perfect opportunity wasn’t going to present itself just like that, he would have to make sure it happened, but that was more complicated than it initially seemed. A lot of work went into that, and while he didn’t mind work, the proposal clashed with his work at the Yard, allowing little room for one or the other. And in his head, the idea that it had to be absolutely perfect still stuck, making it even more difficult for Greg to concentrate. His colleagues noticed, and eventually voiced their concerns, and that was when Greg decided he should let it be for a bit.

On one of the rare evenings that Greg got to spend with Mycroft and Mycroft alone, with no brother to bother them and no government that needed governing, no criminals on the loose, the couple danced. In the middle of their living room, by the large stone fireplace, holding each other and swaying softly to the silky tunes of a classic. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft, Greg would never have learned to appreciate some of the music the man favoured. He liked some classic rock every now and again whereas Mycroft preferred tunes that ranged from blues to jazz and anything in between. Their record player played one of their mutual favourites, the sound a little scratchy from old age, but it still functioned perfectly fine. Until it would fail, they were to dance to it at every opportunity they got, and if it should ever break Greg was determined he would search through every city and every village in the UK until he’d find an identical record.

Maybe this was their song.

Greg smiled where his cheek rested against Mycroft’s at that thought. He felt Mycroft smile in return.

When they turned Greg’s eye fell upon a decorative box on the mantelpiece of their fireplace and he was reminded of what was hidden within. It was definitely the last place Mycroft would look if he sought for anything. The box was usually empty and functioned solely as decoration. But now, it functioned as a little treasure chest. They turned again slowly and Greg kissed Mycroft’s neck. It was a romantic enough situation in his opinion. They were listening to their favourite song, slow dancing in the warm flicker of the fireplace. They were alone, utterly and completely, with no chance of being disturbed by anyone on the outside. All Greg needed now was some sort of diversion that would give him the opportunity to take the ring out of the decorative box on the mantelpiece and hold it with him until he had quickly gone over what to say again.

By now, Greg knew his little speech by heart. It was a bit ridiculous, really, to put so much time in something that could be equally beautiful if it was done spontaneously. But remembering the first time Greg had asked Mycroft out on an actual date…it had been disastrous because he’d jumped into it without much thought, even if Mycroft had agreed in the end. And since, Greg had vowed no similar situation would ever occur. He’d made a right fool out of himself that time despite being thoroughly convinced that he would have to woo Mycroft before the man might ever even consider going out with the grubby Detective Inspector.

Mycroft had turned out to be much less intimidating on a date than he was whenever dealing with official affairs. Their date had gone considerably smoothly, even despite Greg’s nerves, and they had set up a next date immediately by the end of the night. It had been smooth sailing from there. Greg wore his charm like a bracelet, his heart on his sleeve, and just went for it. IF only he had that same boyish confidence when it came to sealing a lifelong commitment with the person he loved most. It shouldn’t be that hard. He scolded himself for thinking that it was.

Their song had ended while Greg was in thought, and Mycroft gently extracted himself from the Detective Inspector’s arms, much to the latter’s disappointment. He loved Mycroft’s body against his more than anything.

“I shall fetch us some beverages,” Greg heard Mycroft whisper as an excuse of the sudden physical distance between them.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, alright love.”

Truthfully, his mouth did feel awfully dry.

When Mycroft had disappeared into the kitchen Greg all but launched himself at the fireplace and scrambled to get the black velvet box out of the larger box like a Matryoshka nesting doll and cradled it in his hand. His heart rate picked up as soon as he felt the weight of it in his palm. Tonight was the night, and if he didn’t do it now, God forbid. He’d give up. Greg licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder to ensure that Mycroft wasn’t already lingering in the doorway, creeping up on him like he did some times. The velvet box opened with the softest creak and Greg’s heart stopped when he looked within.

The ring was gone.

Actually, the ring was still there, but it wasn’t his at all. It wasn’t the one he had spent so much time selecting on. This band was silver, precisely like the one he had chosen, but tiny shimmering green veins broke through the silver gleam, leading slim paths towards a small emerald just next to the centre. It was a gorgeous ring he had to admit, impressive, possibly more so than the one he had chosen to present to Mycroft in his attempt to persuade him to marry him. Confusion painted his expression as he held the box in both hands, eyeing the ring in the dim light of the room. Where had his ring gone? What the hell was he supposed to do now? Fuck.

A creak of the wooden floorboards behind him made Greg turn on his heels, and he was still too startled to even realise he was holding the open box with the ring to be able to hide it behind his back. He gaped at Mycroft. He’d appeared out of thin air as Greg had gotten used to, with a stoic expression and the gentlest shadow of a smile on his lips like he knew more than Greg did.

The Detective Inspector nearly jumped at the sudden intrusion, and he sucked in a breath upon coming to face his lover. Neither of them said a single word to the other, just watched, waiting for something to happen. Maybe Mycroft was waiting for Greg to say something. Greg noticed that Mycroft didn’t once look down at the item that he was holding as if he wasn’t interested in it in the slightest. How long had Mycroft been lingering in the door opening, watching Greg. There was no doubt in his mind that Mycroft now knew what he was up to and what he wanted to do, if he hadn’t known so sooner.

Greg remembered Mycroft had once called him an open book.

Calm and collected as ever, Mycroft plucked the box from Greg’s numb fingers and turned it slowly in his hand so the opening was facing Greg, who was still quite unaware of what was actually happening. Dumbstruck, he watched the other sink down on one knee. He couldn’t believe it. As soon as his mind grasped the situation his lips parted but no words came out. He was holding his breath. Mycroft was going down on one knee before him with a gorgeous ring, presenting it like it was a fragile thing, and Greg felt like he was being tricked. The ring was probably more valuable than the next few pay checks that Greg was going to receive from the Yard combined. He’d had a brief moment to admire the accessory and the single glance gave him that exact impression, as well as, just…wow.

When Greg’s tight chest allowed him to suck in a sudden breath, he was still gaping at the man before him. But he knew what this was. He knew what was happening now, at last.

“You bastard,” he breathed. Butterflies fluttered in his chest.

And Mycroft smiled that devious little smile that Greg had seen more often in the past few years. It was so characteristically and typically Mycroft it was almost infuriating. Not in this moment, though. Now, Greg could only love that look.

It was sly, it was sneaky.

It told Greg that Mycroft had beat him at his own game. And how.

“Well?”

Greg snorted. He rose an eyebrow down at the other man.  
  


“Honestly? Take a guess.”


End file.
